These Plains of Abraham
by Ozy the Talking Haystack
Summary: "Alfred, why does Matthew speak English and French?" A simple question from Peter brings back memories for Alfred, some he wishes would remain hidden. This is a more serious look at an area of history that is often overlooked, even in my own country.
1. A simple question

Author's Note: I have just finished watching the first season of Hetalia, so if the characters aren't completely IC, please let me know and I will see what I can do to rectify this. Feedback is appreciated. This is a very rough start to the fic but I'm hoping that it will improve with further chapters. Note: Hetalia is not mine, as much as I wish it was sometimes.

These Plains of Abraham

"Berwald! Hey, Berwald!" There was the sound of running footsteps, then of a high, eardrum-piercing squeak as a young boy quickly halted in front of him. The man being called looked down at his young charge with disinterest.

"Yes, Peter?"

"So, I was trying to get people to notice me at the general meeting today-"

"Let me guess. Nobody did, did they?"

"No." Peter's enthusiasm was dampened slightly, but he continued on rapidly.

"Anyways, I was there and I saw somebody with blonde hair and I can't for the life of me remember his name-"

"There are a lot of blonde people on the council. You're going to have to specify." "Berwald sighed inwardly and hoped that Peter would get to the point, as he had to meet with Tino over at his house in less than an hour.

"He's got blue eyes."

"Alfred?"

"No, Alfred's brother, I think."

"Alfred doesn't have a brother."

"Yes he does! He's always got a polar bear with him-"

"Oh!" Berwald slapped a hand against his forehead. "Matthew!"

"Yeah, I saw him this morning and I heard him speaking to his bear." Peter said.

"That's nice." Berwald said, walking forward. He was halted in his steps by a tug on his hand.

"Berwald, I have a question."

"Yes?" He glanced back.

"In order to become a good country, I should try to find out what I can about the other countries, right?"

"It's a good idea, yes, although you must be careful."

"How come Matthew speaks in both French and English?"

That caught Berwald's attention. He turned around to face Peter. "Why do you ask?"

"When he was talking to that bear of his Matthew was speaking both languages."

"Oh, well…" Crud. That was at least three hundred years worth of history. He didn't have time to tell all of that, especially since he wasn't entirely sure of all the details himself. "It's a long story. Look, ask Alfred about it; he's closest to Matthew so he'd probably know more." Just as Peter was about to run towards Alfred's house Berwald caught his arm. "Peter?"

"Yeah?"

"This is one of those subjects where you need to be careful. Whatever happens, don't ask Francis why Matthew speaks French."

"Err, ok." Berwald let go and Peter spun around and headed back down the hallway. Berwald watched him go, then shook his head and continued on.

* * *

Alfred was sitting in his garden when Peter arrived, out of breath from running so far.

"Oh, hello…there." He said, not recognizing the boy.

"Hey Alfred, you don't know me yet but someday you will. I'm Sealand!" Alfred blinked as Peter stood there, beaming.

"Err, hello. I don't believe I've ever heard of a country called Sealand." The boy huffed, and then held out his hand. "Don't worry, someday I'll be the greatest country ever! Until then, just call me Peter."

"Nice to meet you, Peter. Did you come to get an autograph?" To his chagrin, Peter burst out laughing.

"No, 'fraid not. I actually came to ask you a couple of questions."

"Shoot."

"Matthew's your brother, right?" Peter asked.

"Well, kind of. It's complicated." Alfred hoped the kid would leave it at that.

"Oh." Peter paused momentarily. "How come Matthew speaks both French and English?"

So much for leaving it at that. Alfred chuckled softly and sat back, looking up at the sky. "Wow." He said.

"What?" Berwald's warnings of being careful came back to Peter, and he turned bright red. "I didn't say something bad, did I?"

"No, it's fine. It's just…been a while since anybody's really questioned Matt's bilingual status." Alfred too, was bilingual, although that had to do more with his Spanish-speaking neighbors than anything else. "Well, to make a long story short, it has to do with the influence that Arthur and Francis had on him."

"Oh…so, is he their kid or something?" Poor Alfred nearly fainted.

"WHAT? No, no, NO. Just…look, it's not like that. He's not thei—well, he kind of was but he wasn't but…" Crud, the short version wasn't going to work. He had the time to tell the long version, and the kid wanted an answer… He patted the space next to him on the bench. "Would you sit with me?"

"Ok." Peter plopped down beside him and started to idly swing his legs.

"Your question is a good one, but it has a very long answer. Do you have the time to hear it?" The boy nodded. "Good. Well, it all started when I was just a young boy, still under Arthur's care…"


	2. The Baby Tree

These Plains of Abraham

Chapter 2

The sky was black and painted over with stars. The moon was barely a sliver, and the air was crisp and cold. Snow crunched softly underneath two pairs of boots. It was fine for Arthur, as there was only a foot of snow on the ground, but for Alfred it was exhausting, as he was almost four feet tall. The dark shapes of the trees were all around them, and there were no signs of life anywhere. General Winter had stolen the land. Alfred giggled impishly as he breathed out, white puffs forming and drifting away into the night.

"Where are we?" He asked.

"Northwards of where I found you." Arthur replied, looking towards the night sky. "I've never really been here before.*" He was wearing a brown jacket and leather boots, with his musket strapped to his back.

Alfred reached up and caught Arthur's glove-wrapped hand as the forest seemed to draw closer all around them. Unlike Arthur, Alfred was bundled up so tightly with coats, scarves, snow pants, hats and sturdy boots that he was having a difficult time just waddling.

They continued walking on for a few minutes, occasionally snapping snow-hidden branches underfoot. Other than the occasional rustle and thumping of snow falling off the pine trees to the ground below, all was calm. There was a rushing of wings overhead, and both caregiver and child looked up to see a large bird sailing overhead.

"Eagle?" Alfred asked. He loved the vicious, majestic birds.

"No, looked like a raven to me." There was a gentle gust of wind, and Alfred shivered. Arthur tilted his head to the side.

"Did you hear that?"

"What?"

"That." They paused for a moment, and Alfred strained to hear whatever it was that Arthur heard. Nothing. Then…

"That's no animal." Arthur started running, and poor Alfred had a horrible time keeping up in his bulky winter clothes. He could hear the faintest sound of cooing in the sudden wind that had picked up. Alfred started coughing, sucking in deep breaths of the icy air, which hurt his lungs.

They halted suddenly, catching Alfred by surprise. He glanced up at Arthur, about to complain, and stopped as he recognized the look on his face as one of shock. Arthur was staring somewhere to his right, his green eyes fixed, his face slack.

"What—" Alfred turned his head in the direction where his caregiver was looking and froze. He gasped. "Is that—"

The trees had parted somewhat, and they were standing on the edge of a little clearing. The raven they had seen earlier was clutching the branches of a spruce at the other end of the clearing, cawing loudly. That was not what caught their attention, however.

In the centre of the clearing was a great tree. It was very much unlike the spruce and pine that they had just been surrounded by, having both a thick trunk and no leaves. It looked sturdy, though withered, and from one of the lower branches hung what looked to be a satchel of fur by a leather strap, the strange contraption suspended six feet off of the ground. A pale face, framed with golden curls, peeped out of the fur surrounding it. The contraption swayed slightly in the breeze, and a soft cooing burble came from it.

"A baby?" Alfred yelped. He had heard of storks bringing babies to people, but he'd never heard of a tree growing babies before.

"No," Arthur breathed. He let go of Alfred's hand and started walking forward, slowly, as if in a dream. "A nation. A new nation."

The baby looked to be about six months old. It smiled down at Arthur as the man approached, and let out a squeal. Dark blue eyes, more of a violet than a sky blue, gazed down from its perch high in the trees. _Where did it come from? _Arthur wondered. _How is it even alive in these conditions?_

"Arthur…" Alfred's eyes widened. He began to tremble.

"Who put you here, little guy?" Arthur was at the base of the tree now, just below the swinging basket.

"Arthur…" Alfred was a little bit louder that time.

_Another nation means more power for England. _Arthur reached upwards, his fingertips brushing the fur.

"ARTHUR!" The man pivoted on one heel, preparing to yell at Alfred, but let out a cry of alarm as he saw that the boy was trying to warn him. He had no time to reach for his musket as the mountain of white fur, sharp teeth and rage-filled eyes descended on him.


	3. The Sky was Alight with Green Fire

These Plains of Abraham

Chapter 3

Alfred could only watch in horror as the snow-white bear rammed into Arthur, the bear letting out a horrible roar as Arthur was flung away from the tree by the force of the beast's attack. Arthur landed in the snow several feet away, rolling to a stop. From the tree, there was the faint noise of the little nation whimpering as it watched the chaos down below, eyes wide and unblinking. Something else was also observing the battle from the edge of the clearing, and this time it wasn't the raven.

Arthur sat up, his vision swimming, his chest throbbing. _What just happened?_ He lifted his head to see the bear charging straight at him. _What is a polar bear doing this far south? _He thought even as he opened his mouth. "Bloody h—"

He leapt out of the way and half-ran, half crawled towards the base of the tree. _Where's my gun? _He thought as the bear caught up to him. A solid smack, delivered from the right to his shoulder, sent him skidding on his back several meters. Blood started to stain the snow, as the bear's claws had torn through his jacket and into his skin.

He could hear Alfred scream as the bear slammed a paw down on his chest. He gasped for breath as the tears streamed from the corners of his eyes; they had been bashed out of him. He saw one upraised paw, framed by starlight, and prepared to die.

"Get away!" Alfred yelled idiotically as he ran forward, Arthur's musket in hand. With the other end of it, he began to hit the bear as hard as he could. The man nearly panicked as the bear turned towards the boy, and cursed himself for not bringing the musket with the bayonet. _Why didn't I teach the boy to shoot a gun GOD PLEASE _he thought as the pressure on his chest grew too heavy. He heard the sharp retort of a gun, not his own, it was too far away, he reasoned as the darkness clouded his vision and he heard no more.

Cold. Wet. Pain.

Arthur's eyes popped open and he almost screamed as pain shot through his ribs and shoulder. Above him were the jagged branches of the tree. Arthur though there was something strangely amiss about it, something he couldn't quite place or remember. Far above that was a clear winter sky alight with green fire. _Aurora borealis._ He thought. _The northern lights. Alfred would love to see this. He'd—Alfred._

The memories came rushing back to him, and he struggled to sit up, ignoring the pain. "Alfred?" He called out, fearing that there would be no answer.

There was the sound of snow-ladened footsteps, and then a face came into view. Alfred's eyes were wide, and his face was grimy with tears. He hugged Arthur, but quickly drew back as the injured man yelped. "I thought you were dead." The boy stated, a little quaver in his voice.

"I'm not, but I sure feel like it." Arthur said gruffly. "Are you hurt?"

"No."

Arthur sighed with relief as he sank back down into the snow and painfully turned on his side, resting on his uninjured shoulder. He blinked as black unseeing eyes stared back at him.

"Good God!" He yelped as he scrambled to get away, his fear drowning out his pain. There was the bear, lying on the ground, with its mouth open and blood oozing through the tiny gaps in its teeth, with more blood pouring out of the bullet hole in the back of the head. The beast was dead.

"Did you shoot it?" He said, thoroughly impressed. _Shooting a polar bear with his caretaker's gun at age five is an impressive feat._

"Nope. Francis." Alfred admitted. "I just hit the bear a few times."

"Yes, and that was a very—" Arthur stopped. 'Francis?"

"Yeah. He came out of the woods just as the polar bear was about to hit me and shot him through the head."

"What was—" Automatically Arthur turned his head to the tree. He knew instantly what he couldn't place when he first awoke. The branches were empty. The child was gone. White hot anger flashed through him. _I'll kill him. _Arthur thought, teeth clenched. _How dare he take what I had found first! How dare he?_

"I'm sorry Arthur. He came just in time and shot the bear, and then he saw the baby and took it. I wanted to stop him, but he was going to take me too and I told him that if he came any closer I'd bite and…" Alfred was silenced by a nudge on the leg with Arthur's boot.

"That baby was supposed to be your brother." Arthur said. "Don't fret, I will not rest until he is back in my charge." He said quickly after seeing Alfred's face fall. "He'll head back to his house first. I'll deal with him then, but not now. I'm in no condition to do so. Stupid old bear." He struggled to sit up, then held out his good hand. "Help me up, Alfred. We're going home."

Author's Note: It appears that the edits I am making to the story (correcting typos and whatnot) are not working. Who do I go to talk to about this? A staff member?


	4. This is the Child

These Plains of Abraham

Chapter 4

The wind was picking up. Francis shivered as gritty snow was flung into his face. In his arms was the baby, still in the contraption he found it from. In his haste to get away he hadn't been able to take the kid out of it yet, and by the looks of it he didn't need to just yet, as the baby was staying warm. However, the baby wouldn't stop crying, and no amount of coddling or clumsy attempts at comfort would calm it. It just stared back at him with big blue eyes, tears dripping down its cheeks, whimpering constantly, occasionally letting out a loud wail. That couldn't be normal.

_So this is the child that will save my life? _Francis thought miserably as he continued on through the forest.

* * *

_"You have been summoned to Mont-St-Michel. His Majesty wishes to meet you there to discuss this latest…predicament." This was not the kind of message that Francis liked to hear from his butler. He_ _groaned and rolled over. "Where will His Majesty be?" He said as he shoved his feet out over the bed._

_"In the abbey."_

_"Fitting." Francis murmured as he staggered painfully to his feet. "Only the Divine can help us now." It had only been a while ago since Spain and Germany had fought and beaten him, badly.* His body—his beautiful body!—had been racked with cuts and bruises, and even a few gashes that needed stitches, though thankfully his face had been spared any permanent damage. He closed his eyes as he splashed tepid water from the basin onto his skin. Not only that, but he couldn't even ask his boss for help because l'idiot gr—er, His Majesty had been stuck in a Spanish prison for the last ten months. _

_He sighed and pulled a clean shirt on. Things were not looking good. From the King's reports, half of the kingdom had been lost. It was a wonder that the fight Spain and Germany had had with him didn't reflect that much damage. _

_"Le Bon Dieu." He murmured softly, slipping the rosary beads around his neck.** "Le Bon Dieu, unless something happens to prevent this, I will be dead within a year."_

_"There is a carriage waiting for you just outside, sir." The butler said stiffly, not letting on that he had overheard what the distraught country had said._

_"Merci, Jean." Francis combed his fingers through his silky locks for a minute then grabbed a croissant and headed out the door. _

_

* * *

_

_The carriage rolled over the cobblestones and into the abbey several hours later. The sun was shining high above, and Francis could hear the roar of the surf as it drove into the cliffs nearby. The air smelled of the sea and of the trees. The abbey of Mont-St-Michel was a rich place, if you were there to seek Le Bon Dieu. If you were there for other purposes…_

_"We're here."_

_Francis stepped out of the carriage. _

_There are many stories about the bones buried under the waves of Brittany._

_"Your Majesty." Francis bowed respectfully to his boss. Behind the king was a man the country did not recognize at first._

_"Ah, yes, we've been waiting for you. Allow me to introduce our friend here. He is the leader of this humble abbey."_

_Francis nodded his respect to the man. Humble was not the word that should've been used to describe the beautiful architecture. _

_"Francis, c'est l'évêque Jean Le Veneur de Tilliers. Business attend à l'intérieur, messieurs.***_

_"Oui. Bonjour, messieur." Francis stepped through the doors of the main cathedral and crossed himself, then sighed as he was lead into one of the side rooms used for the business of the bishops. It was going to be a long day._

* * *

AUTHORS NOTES: My apologies for the lateness of this chapter, I actually had to do quite a bit of research on it. That being said, the next few chapters should come along nicely.

*The French-Spanish War

** I don't know if Francis is Catholic in the show but I do know that France was a majority Catholic nation even when the French stopped burning Protestants at the stake. It isn't quite like that nowadays, but it was during the 1500's.

*** Rough Translation: "Francis, the bishop Jean Le Veneur de Tilliers. Business awaits inside, gentlemen." My knowledge of the French language is non-existant, so please forgive me if I butchered the grammar. :(


	5. A Sailor from St Malo

These Plains of Abraham Chapter 5

_Francis smiled as he sat down on one end of the couch. It was a cheery room that they were in, one that only those who had gained the favor of the Bishop got to use. It smelled faintly of cedar, and the stone floor had been warmed by the sunlight spilling through the open window. _

_Francis' boss had settled down on the other end of the couch. They had just had a light meal, and were now waiting for the bishop to return. _

"_So why are we here?" The country asked quietly. Francois I let out a soft sigh. Though he was a king, his one wish was to be a poet, and he despised having to deal with the foolish greed of men._

"_There are rumors of a new land, across the sea..."_

_Francis stifled a groan. "Your Majesty, pardon my interruption, but could that land possibly be America?"_

"_No. If it was America we would have no chance. That stupid boy chose Arthur over you; even after all of the hard work we did to ensure that he would choose us he still turned away. The child has no taste for good food or anything else. No, if we are to raise a new nation in our image, we must find an infant. There are rumors of one in this new land."_

"_C'est incroyable!"* Francis exclaimed. "And this child could lead us to Wang Yao!"_

"_Exactly, although you aren't thinking quite broadly enough—" The sound of approaching footsteps cut off whatever it was the king was trying to say, and he sat back, feigning disinterest. _

"_Toutes mes excuses, messieur, __Votre Majesté__.** Let us now attend to the business at hand. I do believe that you have come here for a reason, have you not, Your Highness?" _

"_Yes, let's keep this brief. The country has been torn by war and plague. Things are bleak. We cannot afford to lose any more of our citizens." Both Francis and the bishop nodded and the bishop smiled knowingly. The smile melted off his face like candle wax at the king's next statement. _

"_Stop burning the Protestants."_

"_What?" The bishop exclaimed. Francis said nothing. He always considered the habit of burning those who differed somewhat in religion at the stake unnecessary, as it only caused the country pain as a whole. Besides, the practice was cruel. There were much swifter ways of killing people when necessary. Briefly, the image of a falling blade flashed across Francis' mind, but he blinked and the image was gone._

"_Stop the burning of Protestants at the stake. As far as I can see they worship the same Jesus that we do, just in a different way. Call me ignorant, but I believe that it is unnecessary and casts this country in a bad light." Francois I shifted in his seat. "If the killing cannot be stopped completely, then at least try to bring it down to a minimum."_

"_Ahh." The bishop nodded, but seemed ill at ease. The room fell silent. All the while Francis' mind was flying across the sea to the new land. He wondered how tactful it would be to bring up the issue himself. _

"_Your Majesty, if I may speak?" It was the bishop._

"_You may."_

"_May I suggest a deal? I will send out orders to minimize or completely cease the burning of Protestants of France if you will send a sailor from St. Malo to the new land across the Atlantic."_

"_So you have heard the rumors as well." Francis said. The bishop smirked. The king leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and propping his chin up. He stared at the floor, lost in thought. _

"_This sailor…" He said quietly. "What's your interest in him?"_

"_He's related to the church treasurer, Your Highness. A cousin, as a matter of fact. He wants to travel to the new land but he does not have the resources or the financial support to do so."_

"_Mmmhmm. What is his name?" _

"_His name is Jacques Cartier, and he's a master mariner and pilot. He's traveled to South America more than once, so crossing the Atlantic would be little trouble for him." _

_The room fell silent once more. Francis felt weary, and his ribs ached. He wouldn't mind a trip across the Atlantic, so long as it resulted in the conquest of a country. He desperately needed a success to boost his flagging spirits, and at this point he wasn't likely to get one in Europe._

_Finally, the king turned to the country. "Well Francis, what do you think? Are you up for a journey to the New World?" It wasn't a question. Francis smiled sadly._

"_It would be an honour, Your Majesty. I will travel with Jacques Cartier."_

"_Then it is settled." The king stood to his feet, and the three men soon headed towards the door. "And Francis…" Francois I said, turning to face him._

"_Oui?"_

"_Do not fail us again." _

The wind was getting worse, but there were no clouds in the sky to indicate an approaching snowstorm; only the strange green fire that writhed and danced across the vast night sky. The baby was still crying. Francis shivered and held it closer. He still didn't know whether the child was a girl or boy.

As he walked his own crunching footsteps, the baby's whimpering and the wailing of the wind drowned out the sound of the tiny footsteps coming from behind him. Two glowing eyes peered out of the darkness and followed him, snuffling softly, crawling on the top of the snow, occasionally breaking through but always climbing out again to continue the unrelenting pursuit.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: * This is incredible!

** My apologies, sir, Your Majesty.


	6. Three Foreign Words

Chapter 6

_Donnacona. Domagaya. Taignoagney._

The words repeated themselves again and again through Francis' mind. They matched the rhythm of his footsteps and the rhythm of the wind, which was now coming in short spurts. The words were not French.

A chill shot down his spine, one that did not come from the wind or snow.

_Donnacona. Domagaya. Taignoagney._

Was he being followed? Were there other nations in this land already?

_Jacques Cartier met several traveling sauvages a few days ago in the Gaspe Bay. Their chief is named Donnacona. So far these people appear to be poor; a wandering race, like nomads in the desert.* _

That was a report one of the sailors had made to Francis earlier that day, before he had set out to complete his mission.

_Donnacona. Domagaya. Taignoagney. _The first word had been explained. Why hadn't the second or third ones? The baby was growing heavy in his arms. His footsteps were getting heavier, and he still couldn't see any signs of the main pathway that would lead to the ship. The only sights that were keeping him from complete panic were the creamy ax marks that were etched into the trees to lead the way back home. The baby broke out into fresh howlings that seemed to grate a nerve deep down inside of Francis' soul.

"Donnacona. Domagaya. Taignoagney." Francis spoke the words aloud. The baby still cried, but the harsh sounds grew quieter. "Donnacona. Domagaya. Taignoagney." The words sounded strange coming out of his mouth; they felt wooden on his tongue, tasting of earth and a life he could never truly know. "Donnacona. Domagaya. Taig—"

There was the sound of a snapping twig.

Francis spun on one heel, clutching the basket with one arm and drawing his musket with the other. He couldn't fire without both hands, he remembered, and briefly considered dropping the child in the snow before he saw who had been following him the entire time.

Coming closer to him in short stops and bursts of speed was a polar bear cub, creamish-white in colour, with two black eyes staring back at him without any signs of fear. Francis' mind flew back to where he had fired his musket the first time. _There was a polar bear attacking that stupid __fils d'un rat**. Was that this little whelp's mother? _

The bear stopped in its tracks and stared. The wind stopped blowing. With a jolt Francis realized that the baby had stopped crying. He took a step back. The bear took a step forward. He turned around, and the baby started to cry again. The wind started to gust again. He turned back, and everything calmed down.

"What the—" Francis rocked back on his heels. "Get out!" He snarled at the little cub, unable to gesture wildly as his hands were full. "Go away, you stupid beast! Shoo! Get away from me!" The bear sat down in the snow with a soft thump and continued to stare. The baby cooed softly. _So there is a connection to this land. Idiot! Did you think this would be easy? _

He took a closer look at the basket the baby was resting in. The basis of the structure were several wooden spokes excellently shaped and bound together at the bottom, with strips of sturdy birch bark woven in and out of the spokes to create the walls of the basket. The strap that Francis had previously used as a carrying device was made of some form of animal hide, with a wide patch around the middle of the strap that was padded and decorated with some form of bead work on one side.

He tried to carry the baby as he had before, but it just started to cry again. It needed to be able to see the creature that was following them. Francis resisted the urge to swear. _There's no way I am walking backwards all the way to the ship!_

He looked at the strap of the basket. Looked closely at the patch. "Hmm…"

It took only a few seconds to swing the basket around, place the strap (with the beaded side out) onto his forehead, and rest the basket against the flat of his back. The baby faced outwards, and could clearly see the tagalong, so the crying stopped completely. Francis leaned forward to keep the basket with its precious cargo from slipping, and then continued on his way. He did not get back to the ship until the green fire left the sky, and the first light of dawn began to appear.

* * *

"You found him!" One of the younger crew members, a young man named Amaury, yelped. "Just in time! The captain is about to set sail!"

"Amaury!" Francis shushed him. "Don't let anybody know that the child is on board until I have a chance to speak with Jacques! Do you know how long it took for me to quiet it before I could get on board?" The country was not in a good mood. _And all because we had to leave the bear behind._

"The captain is below deck, Monsieur Francis."

"We're leaving already?"

"Yes. Jacques Cartier made the announcement this morning. As soon as the sailors can cut a path through the ice on the river, we're leaving. Fortunately it isn't very thick yet."

"Very well then. Back to your post, sailor."

_Donnacona. Domagaya. Taignoagney._

The words continued to dance across his mind as he descended below deck.

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTES: If I ended up getting any historical facts wrong, please let me know. I've already corrected one mistake back in chapter 5 (it was Spain and Prussia, not Spain and Germany. My bad.), but edits still aren't showing up. I'll be contacting a moderator about this soon.

*Back when Jacques Cartier first met native chief Donnacona and 200 of his people in Gaspe Bay, he basically thought they were flat bloke with no fixed address, not realizing that they were just on a fishing trip and traveling light.

** Translation: Son of a rat. Sorry, but I had to think of a good, Francis-type name directed at England, and this was the best one I could think of, due to the fact I'm not very good at thinking up insults.

EDIT: Ahahaha, how can the ship leave ASAP if it's the middle of the Canadian winter? The rivers would have frozen over. Stupid me. *rolls eyes* Fixed.


	7. The Coming of Kumajirou

Chapter 7

He found Jacques in the Captain's cabin, writing by the light of several candle flames encased in a glass lantern. They flickered, and the shadows that encased Cartier's sharp features retreated for a split second, like the tide. He had a brown shawl wrapped around his shoulders and wore a black _barett_ (1) lined with some kind of fur on his head. Even with this extra coverage, Cartier still shivered. The brutal, biting cold was unlike anything the French had felt before, and they were all suffering horribly from it.

Upon hearing Francis' footsteps, Cartier rested his quill pen back on its stand, then looked up. His pronounced chin, covered with a short, brittle beard, jutted out sharply as the captain nodded to his country.

"_Oui, Francis_?" (2) he said. Ever since the voyage began Cartier had refused to call him France, if only because the idea that the avatar of his country was on the same ship as him truly unnerved the fairly steady captain. He had been told why Francis was to come with them, but had a hard time believing it. His eyes rose to the beaded strap resting across Francis' forehead and cocked an eyebrow.

"I found him." Francis stated, deftly shifting the weight of the basket from his back and into his arms.

All doubt vanished, like when a droplet of water meets a cooking fire. The change in attitude was astounding. Cartier's eyes widened, and he slowly rose to his feet.

"Where?" He said. The baby blinked, its glassy eyes resting on Cartier.

"Believe it or not, hanging from the branches of a tree. I'm not sure what type it was."

Cartier moved around the desk to get a closer look. "A new nation." He murmured almost reverently. A greedy light came into his eyes. "There may be incalculable wealth right at our fingertips. His Majesty will be pleased to hear about this," he murmured, seeming almost to forget that France was still there. "What are you, a boy or a girl?" He said, reaching out with his right hand, the glint of greed still in his eyes.

"Don't!" Francis warned, stepping backwards, but it was too late. Cartier touched the baby on the cheek. The little nation shut its eyes, scrunched up his face and_ screamed_. Cartier jerked his hand back like the baby had bitten him, looking bewildered. "I'm not going to hurt you!" He exclaimed, frustrated and somewhat hurt.

"Do you know how long it took me to calm the baby the first time?" Francis cried out in frustration.

There was the sound of running footsteps on the stairs, and a dishevelled sailor popped his head through the door. "_Mes excuses_, captain," Amaury panted, "But there is a beast on the ship!" (3)

"What?" Francis and Cartier exclaimed, trying to be heard over the sound of the crying baby.

"It just appeared in the middle of the deck! Permission to shoot it, Captain?" Francis clutched the squalling baby to his chest and ran past Amaury, slamming into the poor sailor's shoulder and causing him to stumble back against the doorframe. "_Désolé!_" He yelped as he thundered up the stairs. (4)He shot through the door, only to come to a screeching halt at the sight of the scene before him.

"You've got to be kidding me." He said flatly, shifting his grip on the child so the basket faced forward. There was the polar bear cub, surrounded by Frenchmen with muskets drawn. It just sat there, unmoving, radiating confusion. "Don't shoot!" All eyes turned towards him, and Francis was suddenly aware of how ridiculous he must look, with a still-crying baby in his arms. "Don't…shoot." His voice faltered.

"Hey, who smuggled the kid aboard?" Somebody called out. "Is it one of yours?" There was a brief burst of snickering all around.

"Not exactly." Francis muttered, wanting to melt through the wooden boards.

"Sure he is! He even looks a bit like you! It is a 'he', right?"

"Stand down!" Mercifully, Cartier finally showed up. Instantly the guns went to the sailor's sides. "Has the beast attacked anybody?"

"No captain! It ran out of its hiding place among the gear when somebody went to fetch a pickaxe." The sailor that had heckled Francis moments before answered. There was silence for a moment. Francis blinked, then looked down at his young charge. The baby had stopped crying, and was now staring directly at the cub. As if a signal had passed between them, the cub walked forward towards Francis. A few stepped out of the way. Several of the soldiers trained their guns on it, in case the bear should get violent.

"Steady." Cartier said.

It walked all the way up to Francis, then sat down three feet away, looking up expectantly, like a dog would to its master. Again, snickers filled the air. The baby started to coo happily, squirming in its wrappings.

"So how exactly does this work?" Cartier said quietly from behind Francis, just as realization dawned on him.

"Wang Y—China had something similar to this." Francis murmured.

"Do we kill it?"

"No. It represents something to the babe. When I found the child I killed the cub's mother because it threatened to attack."

"I see." There was a pause as all of the sailors continued to stare, some amused, some serious, and some indifferent. "So what do we do?"

"We keep it with us." The country said quietly. Francis did not like the solution, but he knew that was the way it went sometimes.

"Are you out of your mind?" Cartier sounded disgusted. "What will we feed it with?"

"Table scraps. It'll last long enough to get back home, at least." Francis growled quietly. So long as the dumb creature didn't die on the way home there'd be some semblance of peace on the ship. Cartier paused, then turned to the sailors. "Alright men, back to work! The bear stays with us."

There were some feeble protests, but in the end, there was no going against a captain's orders. The sailors shuffled back to their stations; some to the river to cut their way through, and a select few to the rigging to keep a watchful eye on procedures. France turned around to see that Cartier hadn't moved. Amaury was in the doorway, looking somewhat frightened. He was the youngest of the sailors at sixteen. The bear shuffled over and sat down by his feet.

"Francis, when _les sauvages_—" The captain turned to Amaury. (5) "Back to your station."

He nodded and scuttled away. Cartier continued. "When _les sauvages _come aboard, don't let them see the bear. Animals have some sort of meaning to them, and they may take offense if they find out we have one essentially held captive on board."

"What _sauvages_?" Francis said crossly. The events of the day were beginning to give him a headache.

"Their chief Donnacona trusts us, so he offered to let his two sons travel back with us to France. We've agreed."

"Without consulting me?" Francis said irritably.

"You have done what you were sent to do." Cartier nodded at the child, who was now calmer and didn't squirm as much. "Your job is finished, so just relax and keep the bear away from them. Leave the rest to us."

"Fine. Since they're coming with us, what are their names?" Francis adjusted the weight of the basket. His arms were getting tired.

"Domagaya and Taignoagney."

_Donnacona. Domagaya. Taignoagney. _Francis blinked. So that explained who they were.

"I'm going below deck." He said flatly. "Tell me when they get here." Cartier nodded, and Francis walked wearily down the stairs, the bear at his heels. _I'm going to bed. Wait, first I'm going to take this kid out of this contraption and get a really good look at him or her, then I'm going to bed. _

The baby yawned and closed its eyes, and, despite his current state, France couldn't help but smile. _I will live. Merci Le Bon Dieu, merci pour cette nouvelle terre, merci, merci, merci!_ (6)

* * *

Author's Notes: I'M BACK, BABY. :D I apologize for the immensely long hiatus, but college is, well, college, and I wasn't able to write much of anything except essays and research papers. On the bright side, I got to take a history course that has a whole section on the historical relationship between Canada, America, Britain and France, which has given me a WICKED plot bunny for the end of this fic. :D

Next up: Everyone return to France and receive an unexpected warning! Dun dun dun!

(1) Barett: Originally from Germany, it was a certain flat hat with an upturned brim that was popular in European men's fashions throughout the 1500s.

(2) Yes, Francis?

(3) My apologies, captain.

(4) Sorry!

(5) The savages. This was the actual term used by Cartier to describe the Native Americans, unfortunately.

(6) Thank You God, thank You for this new land, thank You, thank You, thank You!


End file.
